


dance out of the lines

by littledust



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Jaeger Pilots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana enters the Jaeger Academy because she has a California-sized chip on her shoulder and fighting monsters is more acceptable than fighting people. People can be monsters, too, but she's never met a bigger one than herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dance out of the lines

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user autoluminescence. This is what happens when you commission smut and I decide to add plot. This made a pretense of following the Pacific Rim timeline, then I wrote over half of it without Internet access. Consider it an AU heavily inspired by Pacific Rim.

"We're best friends," Santana says to the cameras, teeth clenched and smiling her way through another round of insinuations. The old spike of hurt presses between her ribs. At this point, she doesn't know whether it's Brittany's feeling or hers.

*

Santana enters the Jaeger Academy because she has a California-sized chip on her shoulder and fighting monsters is more acceptable than fighting people. People can be monsters, too, but she's never met a bigger one than herself. When Santana Lopez walks, she leaves a swath of destruction in her wake. _Because it's fun,_ she sneers when one of her classmates dares to ask her why she's so mean. _Insurance,_ she might have said if she were in an honest mood.

Thing is, she has no reason to be so angry all the time. Her family's not from anywhere near the ocean, and she's too young to remember their last trip to the coast. She feels no connection to the girl who lives in a family photo album, the girl with the gap-toothed smile posing in front of an enormous sandcastle. Santana grows up sheltered and a bit of a tomboy despite the uniforms her private Catholic school makes her wear. The ages of eight through eleven are the only time in Santana's life where she's taller than her friends, and she spends this time rescuing them from pirates and kidnappers and kaiju. Everyone fights over the chance to be her copilot because she's the fastest runner, the hardest thrower, and the highest climber.

The games stop in the summer between sixth and seventh grade, when Sunshine Corazon asks Santana if she's going to marry a lady like her aunt did, but she wasn't allowed to be the flower girl or even go to the wedding, how unfair is that. That's about when Santana asks her mother how to put on makeup. If you look pretty, people will let you do anything, including play violent sports.

*

As soon as it hits midnight on her eighteenth birthday, Santana applies to the Jaeger Academy. She's accepted because she's a nationally ranked athlete in every sport she's ever tried, because she's made honor roll every semester of her life rather than face the wrath of her grandmother, and because her dad wouldn't let her get a car without knowing how to maintain it by herself. She's the bona fide total package, or so she charms a whole bunch of recruiters into thinking. There's that pesky problem of _does not play well with others_ slapped all over report cards and psych evaluations. Santana pays special attention to her makeup and memorizes a lot of speeches about wanting to save the world. Ms. Pillsbury, the woman who handles all the headcase pilot stuff, can't spot a liar to save her life. All it takes to make it are the looks and the lines.

Santana kicks ass at all her classes until it comes time for Drift sync testing. The only reason she doesn't get kicked out of the program is because her original instructor, a smarmy guy named William Schuester, gets fired after some higher ups figure out he's not actually qualified for the position they hired him for. (If they received a hot tip from an anonymous source, well, Santana's not saying a thing.) Santana's so promising in every other area of the program that they chalk up her failure to poor teaching. Everybody except Sue Sylvester, the only person to put the fear of God in Santana besides her grandmother.

"The world is full of sniveling babies who think that battling thousand-ton interdimensional life forms is _difficult_ ," Sue "Coach" Sylvester snarls, throwing Santana a headset. "You, on the other hand, have your head too far up your own ass to feel fear. I will not let you flunk out. Again."

How Coach Sylvester plans on getting Santana into a real Jaeger, she has no idea. Coach herself has gone into forced retirement thanks to radiation poisoning. (She claims it gives her the power to detect weak thoughts and stamp them out like so many cockroaches.) Santana has never Drifted successfully with a fellow trainee, and just barely with Coach. There are nights when she wonders if solo piloting would be worth the neural overload and the early death, because she's gone from learning how to pilot to treading water. If they send her back, she'll go under, starting bar fights just to get blood on her hands.

Turns out that Coach Sylvester plays a long game, because the day after one of the Pierce sisters breaks her collarbone, Coach tells Santana to suit up, she's about to get a copilot.

*

All Jaeger pilots are famous. Brittany S. Pierce is famous among the famed, a household name since her days at the Academy. Scientists are obsessed with her outrageously high Drift compatibility with everyone they've ever tested; fellow Rangers and trainees alike study her unbelievable combat moves to keep themselves alive in tough situations. Despite the record eight kills she and her sister have under their belts, Brittany claims that she has yet to meet her true match. (She also says that her family cat is the most Drift-compatible creature for her sister. Jaeger pilots are allowed to be eccentric.)

None of these facts prepare Santana for this one: Brittany S. Pierce is _hot_. Television screens and glossy magazine pages portray an all-American girl, nice-looking but not model pretty. Brittany in real life is poetry in motion, except better because Santana hates poetry, whether it's froufrou rhyming crap or modern bleating about existence or whatever. Brittany makes walking over to shake hands an _art_ , and her smile stays friendly when Santana mumbles a greeting in what might be English.

"Coach Sylvester says you're cranky and know a lot of strategies," Brittany says. Instead of leaning down to untie her sneakers, she just lifts her leg into the air. "I'm hard to predict. It's like the weather, only it's always raining where we go, so maybe not."

"Get ready to be rocked like a hurricane," Santana promises. (If there's anywhere quoting 80's heavy metal is okay, it's in a Kwoon Combat Room.)

"Awesome," Brittany says. "Should I fight with my umbrella?"

Santana catches herself before she cracks a joke about _getting wet_. What the hell is she thinking? She grabs a staff and takes her place on the mat, willing her raging hormones to the back of her mind. Say one thing for Sue Sylvester: she hasn't taught Santana how to trust someone enough to Drift, but now she has enough control of her emotions that she no longer worries about beating someone up for looking at her funny. Put her in a situation where she can use her fists and her mind goes cool and still, converting emotion to energy.

The first point goes to Brittany, who leaps over Santana's staff and lands in a pose straight out of a ballet magazine, staff pressed against Santana's neck. The second point goes to Brittany as well, when Santana almost scores a hit and the backbend Brittany drops into is so impossible she freezes. "Tell me a story," Brittany prompts, tapping her ankle with her staff. "I like 'The Ugly Duckling.'"

"Once upon a time a huge bitch met a leggy blond," Santana mutters, but she scores her first point anticipating the moment Brittany spreads her arms wide, like wings. Brittany _does_ make her motions an art, and the way they flow together tells the story. When she moves, she flies. She scores another point on Santana before Santana fires back, instinct telling her to lunge forward where training says to retreat. 3-2, Brittany's favor.

Santana scores her third point by bringing her staff to Brittany's shoulder, forcing her down to earth. Brittany looks up at her, brow creasing in disappointment. "I don't like _Swan Lake_ ," she says.

"What?" Santana asks, and it's only stepping on her own foot, sheer dumb _luck_ , that saves her from losing the match right there. She inadvertently blocks Brittany in the act of catching herself on her staff. Muscles screaming, she recovers and twists her body around, because Brittany is faster than she'll ever be but Santana can at least go out fighting--

Her staff brushes against Brittany's collarbone. Santana almost drops her staff in surprise. "You could have dodged that," she says, eyes narrowing. "Why did you--"

"You tried anyway," Brittany says. The way her smile lights up the room is cliche, and adorable, and signifies trouble ahead. Santana ignores the fluttering in her stomach. "Don't tell anyone, though. You're my copilot."

"Me?" Santana asks. Coach Sylvester says something from across the room, but the words are indistinct thanks to the rush of blood through her ears.

"Unless you have a clone, and probably still even then."

Santana takes the hand Brittany puts out to shake. Various places in her body go either hot or cold at her touch. "My school went on a field trip to see _Swan Lake_ in eighth grade," she says. "The ending sucked."

*

Their initial Drift test leaves Santana in tears.

It's not a handshake, she realizes as the machine lights up, it's a dance. Brittany is the partner who will never drop you, who will spin you through a tangle of golden childhood memories and catch you on the other side, laughing and out of breath. Santana can feel Brittany cutting a graceful arc through her own memories, skimming through the taste of her abuela's cookies, the roughness of tree bark under her fingers, the electric rush of looking at a beautiful girl. Santana starts to pull back, heart speeding up to match the frantic beeping of the machines, and then Brittany sends her an image of her embracing Santana from behind.

_I feel it too,_ Brittany says, and Santana is left with a fleeting impression of every person Brittany has ever loved, male or female. Brittany remembers the press of fingers on her shoulderblades, snatches of song badly blended with the radio, kisses that tasted like mango. She thinks Santana is beautiful, like a cactus longing for rain. She wants to press her face to Santana's neck, teach her how to do a one-handed cartwheel, ask her about her favorite color.

"Red," Santana gasps as they both surface back in the waking world, neural handshake holding strong. Her face is wet; so is Brittany's. "It's red."

The rest of their initial Drift test proceeds without a hitch. Coach Sylvester sounds almost proud as she barks orders through the headset, running them through the usual drills. Santana can't keep the stupid grin off her face as they move together. Brittany has this deep well of joy inside her and it's seeped into Santana. They are _unstoppable_. Even as wrapped up as she is in actually piloting the Jaeger, Santana can hear the excited buzz from the control room. They've never seen coordination this perfect on the first try.

"That's right, bitches," Santana says. "Bow down. Little to the left, Britt-Britt."

_You're bossy,_ Brittany thinks at her. _I like it._

If she has anything to say about the shiver that runs down Santana's spine at her words, well, she keeps it to herself and lets Santana finish the test run.

"We can rename our Jaeger if you like," Brittany says as they disconnect their gear, like all the registration paperwork won't take a million years and rain the wrath of the United States bureaucracy on their heads. "My sister and I came up with the name when we were little."

"Cheerio Ballad is a great name," Santana says. "The kaiju will think we're too cute to be dangerous."

That's really when she gives in to the attraction. Choosing sweetness over threatening has never been her style. So later, when Brittany kisses her, it's no struggle at all to kiss her back. They peel each other out of sweat-damp clothes. It's Santana who walks them backwards until the backs of her knees hit her bed, Santana who lets go to fall back against the mattress. Brittany leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind Santana's ear. Someone a few doors down is listening to an old Fleetwood Mac song.

"I want to," Santana says in response to Brittany's unasked question. "My favorite color is red, but your eyes are blue and I'm thinking about changing my answer." She's crying again, but her head is still full of Brittany, who thinks that everything from sex to math is better with feelings.

"Shh," Brittany says, crawling on top of Santana. She nuzzles her face into Santana's neck, drapes an impossibly long leg over Santana's thighs, and rests a hand on Santana's stomach. "My favorite colors are you and rainbows, but they're really the same," she mumbles against Santana's skin, the words so blurred together they're almost lost.

They doze off like that. A few hours later, Santana wakes up hornier than she's ever been before in her life and they have sex so many times they miss breakfast. It's the only time Santana forgets to consider what other people might say.

*

The kaijus fall before them. The public expresses its adoration by sending paparazzi after them, snapping endless photographs of them training, eating, shopping. Brittany doesn't really remember a life without flashbulbs going off in every direction and ignores it as much as anyone can. Santana learns an obscene hand gesture for every country they visit so most photographs of them are unusuable. She prefers the official PPDC pictures where they lounge against Cheerio Ballad, smirks vivid against the glossy scarlet metal. They look tough. More importantly, they look professional.

"What's the nature of your relationship with your copilot?" is the third question in every interview, often the first question the paps yell if they catch them out on the street. Santana would prefer they cut to the chase and just scream, _Hey! Are you fucking?_

It's a fair question to have, if a rude one to ask. Most Jaeger pilots are immediate family members, and almost all of the rest are romantically involved. Santana Lopez and Brittany S. Pierce are the outliers, the mystery every two-bit journalist wants to solve. Santana hates the sly insinuations in the magazines, the outright rumors in the tabloids. It doesn't matter if they're true. (Mostly. As far as she knows, neither of them has borne the other's love child.) What matters is other people's greasy fingers all over their partnership, the way the press turns private emotion into public entertainment.

"Your fault," Santana says after their first Level III kaiju. The bastard went down hard and Santana is sore from the twist it gave Cheerio Ballad's right arm. She's actually glad it was a two-team mission.

"For what, your arm? It could have gotten twisted off instead," Sam says, and reaches over to massage his copilot's shoulders.

Mercedes grins up at him. "You know she'd rather that than say thank you."

Sam Evans and Mercedes Jones were the other big mystery to the press. Within the first hour of meeting them, Santana knew they were fucking, so the only real mystery is why the paps took so long to figure it out. Sam and Mercedes finally owned up to dating after one of the tabloids ran some gigantic photographs of them wearing matching rings on necklaces. They're not married on the books, but the rings signify their spiritual union or whatever. Santana stopped reading the article when she started wondering what kind of ring she'd put on Brittany.

"Me and Britt-Britt are going to have the paps on our asses for the rest of time now that you two are old news," Santana clarifies, snagging a paper cup and filling it with coffee. She'll need the fortification for the Jaeger bombs later.

Brittany wraps her pinkie finger around Santana's, a version of holding hands that affords them more privacy. They're close enough to the Drift that Santana can feel Brittany's amusement as well as her fading adrenaline rush. _You're missing a piece of the puzzle._ Brittany's gesture takes in the crowd of engineers and doctors and scientists rushing towards them. Santana doesn't even know the names of half the geeks who keep things running, but it doesn't matter. Santana does the talking when Brittany doesn't feel like it, and Brittany does the friendliness because Santana doesn't give a damn about most people. ( _That's_ a little fact the tabloids have never published, probably because they'd get their asses sued.)

"Yeah, yeah, I'm in one piece, get off me," Santana says, squirming away from the doctor trying to look at her wrist. "Britt would say if I needed you, are you new?" She's too tired to be terribly insulting, plus the new doctor is hot, seriously model pretty, so she's not giving Santana all that much to work with.

"New to your charm, not the profession," the doctor says dryly, flicking her blond bangs out of her eyes. "I'm from the Balrog Inferno team, but my colleagues are unwilling to investigate the bruising on your wrist."

"Ow!" Santana yelps, but the doctor's fingers close around her arm like a vise. "Jesus!"

"Close, but I usually go by Dr. Fabray."

"Be nice, Quinn," Brittany says, letting go of Santana's pinkie to hold out her own wrist for inspection. "We killed a monster today."

"You two know each other?"

"I was interning in Los Angeles when Cheerio Ballad was working out of that Shatterdome," Dr. Fabray says, good-humored smirk stretching into a real smile for Brittany. "Your wrists will be fine. Use ice. See you two at post-mission drinks."

"But she's not even part of the _team_ , technically," Santana says as Dr. Fabray walks away. Brittany just laughs and shakes her head.

*

"I think I am alive. In my face," Santana says, because relaying this information seems very important after the fourth shot. (Third? There was the traditional Jaeger bomb and then there was all the alcohol in the world after.)

"I am alive. In my pants," Sam replies. He's watching Mercedes and Brittany dance together, both missing a few pieces of clothing. Santana punches him in the bicep. "Hey! A guy can look!"

"A guy can get beaten up by a girl half his size," Dr. Fabray says, joining them at the bar. She's changed out of her white coat and into a variation on the little black dress. She's carrying an old-fashioned looking drink. It's some kind of liquor with ice. Santana's vision went blurry after the last drink. She squints and tilts her head, trying to see if the good doctor has lesbian hands.

"...I hope you're not checking for a ring." Dr. Fabray--Quinn, Santana remembers now, drawing on a thread of Brittany's memories--takes a sip of her drink. "Because I'm taken."

"Yeah, well, I'm a rock star," Santana says, and stares at her own hands. She can't remember what finger is supposed to be longer for lesbians hands. She should grow out her fingernails to throw people off, but Brittany would be disappointed. "Guppy Face knows what I'm talking about."

"Also taken!" Sam says, waving her off. "Happily taken. Do you need help meeting someone? I know people who like people."

"Oh my God, no way," Santana says, batting her eyelashes. That turns into blinking away tears, because if she could just get a guarantee that the world would leave them _alone_ , she'd propose to Brittany in a heartbeat. She wouldn't even wait to buy a ring, she'd just knot a straw wrapper together and Britt would think it was the best thing ever.

Like magic (or psychic bond), Brittany heads back to the bar with Mercedes. Her pink bra with the black polka dots is just what the doctor ordered to distract Santana from melancholy thoughts. "The doctor ordered," Santana giggles, sliding off her stool to lean on Brittany. "I've been talking to Quinn! Wait, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!"

Mercedes cracks up along with Santana. Sam and Brittany have obviously never watched ancient reruns on television, because they just look confused. Quinn rolls her eyes and says, "She's cut off. Doctor's orders."

"I am the boss of my life. I am the captain of my soul," Santana insists, then buries her face in Brittany's shoulder. "I have the spins."

"She wants to be friends with the floor and it keeps moving," Brittany explains, patting Santana on the head. "So, like, not the good spins, like swing dancing or a clothes dryer. These spins go to bed. Help me bring her back, Quinn?" Then Brittany leans over and whispers into Santana's ear, "Look at Quinn's necklace."

Well, if Santana's half-naked girlfriend wants her to gaze deeply into another woman's cleavage, who is she to refuse? When she feels another arm around her waist, Santana cracks an eye open. Quinn's neckline is high and the chain around her neck is plain gold. She closes her eyes again when everything blurs together.

"Hey, stay awake. Tell me a story," Brittany says.

"Once upon a time," Santana starts off obediently. "Once upon a time... there was a knight. She slayed all the dragons ever. Two hot blonds took her to bed. All the other knights were jealous."

"Are you sure this one's a keeper, Brittany?" Quinn asks.

Panic washes over Santana, _theyknowtheyknowtheyknow_ , and she gags. Brittany and Quinn strongarm her into a bathroom just in time. For a few minutes, her gag reflex takes precedence over her fear. When she's done, Santana rests her cheek on the cool porcelain and fights the urge to be sick again. Quinn _knows_. She probably has medical school bills. How much would their secret be worth?

There's a cool hand on her forehead and something swinging near her face. Santana forces herself to focus. It's Quinn taking her temperature, leaning far enough forward that the charm at the end of her necklace has fallen out. The charm's not all that fancy, just a circle, just like...

Santana sits up, nausea forgotten. _Just like Sam and Mercedes._ She can feel Brittany's nod in her mind, the same as she she feels Brittany's hand rubbing her back. "No wonder you don't gossip," Santana croaks.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Quinn says, rising. Two spots of color on her cheeks betray her. "You've got it from here?"

"Roger," Brittany says. "Why do people say that? Is Roger important?"

"The room is spinning again," Santana whines. Quinn's gone, shutting the door behind her, so it's safe to be pathetic. "Let's go to bed."

*

Team Balrog Inferno ships out before Santana's hangover does. The doctor she earns herself a round scolding from ( _what happens if there's another kaiju attack, you know they're getting more frequent!_ ) is neither snippy nor blond. Santana ends her litany of insults to the doctor by threatening to remove one of each organ. Coach Sylvester awards her points for style and sentences her to two weeks of dish duty.

Two weeks up to her armpits in scalding dishwater and soggy pieces of tofu do little to improve Santana's disposition. They give her time to think about all the questions she wants to ask those three, though, questions about love and press and wedding rings. Brittany tries to explain it, but it's hard for her to put into words what she understands most intuitively. She also says she'd need a third person for an explanation via dance, which makes Santana's brain short circuit at the mental images.

"I don't really want to," she says in response to Brittany's questioning look. "It's just, uh, something I hadn't thought about."

Brittany smiles. "You're a duetist. Like a soloist but two, you know?"

In the end, it takes Santana almost attacking two paps to give her the chance to ask all of her questions.

Jaeger Academy taught her how to channel the anger and Brittany knows her well enough to help her manage it, but Santana has never gone a day without it. If Brittany's core is a well of joy, Santana's is a wall of fire. So when two members of the press elbow their way into Santana's favorite restaurant and whip out their cameras three feet from their table, instinct takes over.

"Mother _fuckers_ ," she snarls, rising to her feet so fast she sends her chair flying. "Get the fuck out! I fucking protect your worthless lives!" She twists and kicks one of their fancy cameras out of the pap's hands, and she's never heard such a satisfying smash in all her life. She needs to break the other camera, she needs to break their _noses_ \--

"Santana," Brittany says, touching her arm. "Coach won't let you get away with that."

Brittany counts Santana off in her head as the restaurant staff escort the paps out. She clenches and unclenches her hands, forcing the rage out of her limbs and back into her heart, where it batters against the cage of her ribs like an animal. People are staring like she was the one in the wrong, like she should just use some _self-control_. Not for the first time, she wonders whether humanity is worth saving.

The next day, Brittany calls in some favors and gets them a flight to Seattle.

*

Quinn doesn't bother with hellos as they step off the helicopter. "You understand that this is private information," she says, ushering them into her car. It's a minivan; Santana has to bite back several hilarious comments. "Sam and Mercedes are much nicer people than I am. I _will_ destroy you if you try to touch us."

Santana understands a hell of a lot more when they pull up to a small, tidy-looking house and a little blond girl runs out, waving one arm in cheerful greeting. "Mom! Mom! I finished my homework! I can watch my show now, right?" She clams up when she sees Brittany and Santana, dark eyes wide and shy.

"Hi," Brittany says, shaking Beth's hand like she's an actual adult instead of... however old she is. Santana's never around kids, she has no freaking idea. "I'm Brittany and this is Santana. You're Beth, right?"

"Beth," Quinn prompts. Santana would laugh at sight of the sarcastic doctor mom-ing a kid, but she actually sounds like a parent. It's... sweet.

Beth glances up at her mother, who nods. "Nice to meet you," Beth says. "Welcome to our home."

"Can I see your room?" Brittany asks, because dance, Santana, and kids are her three areas of expertise. (Also veterinary medicine, bizarrely enough, but that has yet to come in handy outside of one late night Jeopardy rerun.) Beth gives her a tiny smile and then takes her by the hand, leading her inside.

"Cute kid," Santana says. It seems like the right thing to say. She jams her hands in the pockets of her favorite hoodie. "So, uh..."

"As far as the world is concerned, Mercedes is my best friend," Quinn says, staring after Beth and Brittany. "She and her family took me in when my family was less than thrilled about their teenage daughter's unplanned pregnancy. She was there when Beth was born." The corner of Quinn's mouth turns up in a smirk. "We're practically sisters."

"Awkward," Santana says, making a face. "Also gross, considering."

Her words surprise a chuckle out of Quinn and the smirk fades. "Let's go inside and I'll tell you the rest. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, lemonade, tea...?"

"Water's fine," Santana says, distracted by the relentlessly tasteful decor. The walls are all white and the floors are a warm brown wood, relieved by the occasional deep blue rug. Family pictures line one wall of the front hallways. Most of them showcase Beth in various stages of development: bundled up as an infant, in a high chair smeared with cake, playing in a sandbox, reluctantly posed in front of a school building, beaming next to a finished model Jaeger. There are a few of the adults, though: Mercedes and Quinn at their high school graduation, though only Mercedes is wearing a graduation gown; Mercedes and Sam at their Jaeger Academy graduation, a smiling Quinn and a tiny Beth wedged between them in their uniforms; two surprisingly young pictures of Quinn, one at college graduation, the other at medical school graduation; a framed newspaper clipping that chronicles Balrog Inferno's first kaiju kill.

Quinn actually takes Santana's hoodie and hangs it up in the hallway closet like it's a jacket, then ushers Santana into a small living room, which contains powder blue furniture so pristine Santana is afraid to sit on the couch. The coffee table is freaking glass. There are _coasters_. Santana's been living out of one room (two, technically) for so long she's forgotten what a house feels like.

"Most of this stuff is new as of last month," Quinn says, amused. When she smiles for real, Santana can see the resemblance to her daughter. "Between Sam and a child, it's useless to fuss about stains. Beth's past the worst it, though I can't say the same for Sam. Let me get you your drink."

"Thanks," Santana says. There's a photo album on the table, so she picks it up and starts flipping through. It's devoted to sketches of superheroes, some Santana recognizes and some that must be made up, each one accompanied by a handwritten description at the bottom.

Quinn comes back with two mugs of tea. "I know you said water, but I also know you're not that boring," she says, settling next to Santana on the couch. Her face softens at the sight of the photo album. "Sam's hobby. Mercedes sings. I stress bake. We make it work."

"How?" Santana asks, taking a sip of her tea. Peppermint. Quinn is either the perfect hostess or she cheated and asked Brittany. "How do you...?" She clears her throat. "Why are you doing this?"

"I met Brittany and her sister when they were finishing up at the Academy. Brittany is the only person who's ever figured us out, and the reason she did is because she doesn't see anything strange about it." Quinn sets her mug down on a coaster. "As for how, you know that Sam and Mercedes live on base. Most of the time, it's just Beth and me. No one cares about the best friend, everyone wants the pilots. The press has harassed me exactly twice in my lifetime, and only at the Shatterdome. The people who hired me didn't even realize I already knew Sam and Mercedes. I shouldn't be allowed to provide them medical services, but I don't care."

Santana relaxes muscles she didn't even know were tense. The perfect hostess in the perfect house isn't an image she trusts, but words like that make sense. Like hell Santana would let anyone else look after Brittany if she knew anything about medicine. "Did you graduate med school at, like, twelve? You can't be that much older than me unless you shelled out for the really good plastic surgery. I guess you know people."

"I took some community college courses after Beth was born. I finished high school early, then college. It seemed like the most appropriate way to repay the Jones family for their kindness." Quinn shrugs, like achieving ridiculous academic accomplishments after the birth of a child is no big deal. "Med school took the usual amount of time."

There's a thud upstairs, then the sound of various small things spilling across the floor. "I'll clean it up when I'm done, Mom!" Beth calls.

"I don't even want to know," Quinn sighs. "That girl is going to be an engineer, but dear God, at what cost?"

A million more questions bubble to Santana's lips as she processes this new information, but she already planned to ask the most important one. "The rings?" she asks.

"The rings." Quinn picks up her mug once more and takes a long sip. "We're not public for Beth's sake, but we wanted to show her that--that her parents are committed to each other. That Sam and Mercedes aren't going to fly away one day."

Santana smiles. "That's pretty romantic, Dr. Q."

"Yes, well." Quinn gives her an indecipherable look, brows quirked in thought. "If we ever go public, it'll be for Beth's sake as well."

"What?" Trained reflexes are the only thing that save Quinn's brand new couch from some tea stains. "I don't know shit about parenting, but _what?_ "

There's another long silence as Quinn drinks her tea, considering. Santana toys with the tassel on one of the curtains, impatient. Footsteps thump upstairs, then make their way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Brittany says something and Beth laughs. It's a little disgusting how gooey the sound of her daughter's laughter makes Quinn look.

"If my daughter falls in love with two people, I'd like for all of them to have grown up with a good role model," Quinn says at last, which is so perfectly mom-ish that Santana has to laugh so she doesn't cry instead.

*

Brittany is quiet on the drive back to the Seattle Shatterdome, outright silent as they get on the flight back to Los Angeles. Santana loops their pinkies together and waits for Brittany to find the words. God, she's searching for words of her own, so the reprieve is nice. They both fall asleep in the air and wake up when they touch down.

Instead of heading back to their quarters, they go for a walk on the grounds to stretch their legs. The heat feels good after autumn in Seattle. At long last, Brittany pauses under a tree and asks, "So what do you think?"

Santana wipes suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans and says, "If we do this, we do this for real. I want to take you to a fancy dinner, get down on my knee with a ring, have a freaking huge wedding with a giant cake, the whole thing."

Brittany's face lights up like Times Square at New Year's, and Santana feels a stab of guilt for making her wait so long. It was always a foregone conclusion, her and Britt, the only question how big of a coward she would be. Brittany wraps her up in a hug so tight she can hardly breathe and asks, "What changed?"

"Role models," Santana says, resting her head on Brittany's shoulder. "You know what my childhood was like, right? It was a good life, I was just pissed off all the time. Hated feeling different." She sniffs, but refuses to cry. She doesn't have alcohol as an excuse. "Like, I didn't want to be Ellen, you know? Maybe if I had a hot, badass Jaeger pilot to look up to."

"You're my hero," Brittany says, and kisses her before Santana can tell her she's always been hers.

Just as Santana is wondering whether they should take this back to a bedroom or if she should haul Brittany to a jeweler's for a ring fitting, warning lights go off and an alarm sounds. "Shit," Santana says, and she and Brittany break into a sprint.

"Ladies, we have the honor of the very first Level IV kaiju, code name Malvado," Coach Sylvester says as they throw the doors to headquarters open. "Seattle's on its way, but we have to get out there now." Her lips are thin, her eyes dark. "You will hold that line."

"Ma'am," they reply, and suit up.

For once in their lives, it's not raining as the helicopters release Cheerio Ballad. The sky is an endless stretch of azure, the ocean tinted to match. A perfect day for discussing marriage and fighting monsters. Santana almost laughs, but Coach Sylvester will shout at her if she thinks she's not taking this seriously. Whatever, she's not as irresponsible as those guys in Anchorage. They wade into the ocean, scanning the waves for a glimpse of oily flesh. 

"Maybe Level IV kaiju are invisible," Brittany says after the fifteenth minute passes.

"Thanks for that," Santana says. "That's super comforting."

The kaiju chooses that moment to surface. Its hide is leathery gray broken up with streaks of electric green. The fins on its back and the maw of teeth help convey the impression of a shark gone horribly wrong. It roars, deafening even through the helmets covering their ears, and strings of electric blue saliva trickle down its jaws. The spittle hisses and steams when it hits the water.

" _Hey, ugly!_ " Santana calls out in Spanish, and slams Cheerio Ballad's fist into its face. " _You think you speak my language? My language is my foot up your ass!_ " She and Brittany follow her taunt with a kick that brings the kaiju to all four of its knees, howling in pain.

"Since none of that was in English, I'm going to assume things are going well," Coach Sylvester says over the headset.

"Muy bien," Santana replies, baring her teeth in a grin no one but Brittany can see. "This bastard didn't come to tango."

The kaiju lets out another earsplitting shriek and launches itself at Cheerio Ballad. They shift into a defensive stance and absorb the brunt of the impact in Cheerio Ballad's left arm. The kaiju bites down, its teeth doing little more than hold its mouth in place as they attempt to shake it off, but the saliva eats through Cheerio Ballad's arm, melting it into so much slag. Santana and Brittany scream in pain. Their wild thrashing eventually shakes off the kaiju, and another well-aimed kick buys them a few minutes.

"Cannon!" Santana gasps, and Brittany clenches her fist, charging their plasma cannon. "This thing has an acidic bite. Left arm's still present but nonfunctional," she reports back to the Shatterdome. "How far out is Balrog Inferno?"

"Twenty more minutes," crackles Coach Sylvester's voice over the headset. "You've held your own with nastier, Cheerio Ballad. This one's big, which makes it slow. Use your heads."

"Rather use the cannon!" Santana shouts. "Now, Britt!"

Brittany fires the cannon three times into the kaiju's side and electric blue blood boils into the Pacific Ocean. The kaiju slips out of sight beneath the waves, its battered body a shadow that fades into deep blue. No way a Category IV goes down that easy. They assume a fighting stance, cannon still charged for three more shots and revving up for more. "Protect the right arm," Santana orders. "You know the moves, Britt. Keep us working 'til Balrog Inferno gets here. Gotta save 'em a piece of the action."

She feels Brittany's affirmation as the kaiju resurfaces, all of its teeth bared in a roar. Is there a point to all the noise besides an attempt at intimidation? Brittany fires again, but the thing slams itself back into the sea. The second shot goes wild as Brittany readjusts, swearing in Santana's voice, and this time the kaiju locks its jaws around Cheerio Ballad's torso, tearing at the connections between upper body and legs. They bring the right arm into position and fire twice, all the charge they have left, and still the kaiju hangs on, teeth clamped.

"Hammer it!" Santana screams, and they pound at the kaiju with their one remaining fist as their AI calls out warnings in a cool, feminine voice. The hiss of dissolving metal overwhelms even the alarms. In minutes, Cheerio Ballad's torso will plummet into the ocean, a death trap even without a monster to devour them whole.

"Britt," Santana croaks as the AI intones, _Critical systems failure imminent._ "I know this is a bad time, but just in case we don't make it out of here." She pauses to draw breath in the steaming heat of the cockpit; Cheerio Ballad's cooling systems have failed. Brittany transmits her a wash of warmth. "I've been a shitty girlfriend. I love you, but I don't even have a ring. Will you marry me anyway?"

"Yes," Brittany says, one of the few words she's ever spoken in combat. There are tears running down her face, mirroring the first time they Drifted. "Yes."

"Well, now we have to survive this," Santana says, and Brittany does some kind of dancer's shimmy that gets them out of the kaiju's grip.

It's then that Balrog Inferno drops into the battle, the sword that Sam insists was an essential upgrade drawn and ready. "Sorry we're late," Mercedes says, and Santana just about sobs in relief. "The clean-up crew is here."

Santana makes a mental note to help Mercedes with her taunts as Balrog Inferno hacks off pieces of the kaiju. As soon as Cheerio Ballad's cannon recharges, they assist with the kill, blowing the thing's skull to pieces with glee. "Kaiju down!" Sam crows over the headset. "Uh, congrats on your engagement, by the way."

Brittany thinks _thank you_ and Santana says, "Shut up." Sam and Mercedes seem to know what she means. They keep offering suggestions for the wedding on their long trek back to the Los Angeles Shatterdome. Shit, she hasn't even thought that far yet.

"Do near-death experiences make you married?" Santana asks, still riding high off the battle rush as they strip off their equipment. "Because I think that was our wedding."

Brittany gives the question actual consideration, brow creasing. "I think I'd like our wedding to have more dancing."

"Whatever you want, babe," Santana says. The doors open and they walk in to a room full of cheering staff. God knows who pops a bottle of champagne they acquired from God knows where, and there's a hastily scribbled banner hanging from underneath the clock that spells out CONGRATULATIONS. Still linked in the Drift, their smiles match.

*

They skip the rest of the celebratory drinking to collapse into bed, falling asleep in a tangle of thoughts and limbs. Sleeping with your copilot is like Drifting, only no one gets hurt if you chase the rabbit all the way to Wonderland. They follow mutual memories, visions of each other overlaid across deep red metal. The scents of jasmine and orange mingle with that of gasoline. Smudges of engine oil, the deep bass throb of club music, ever more fragmented memories as they swim towards consciousness...

Santana's eyelashes brush Brittany's jaw as she wakes. She feels a phantom tickling on her own jaw and pulls herself closer. They were too tired to undress before bed and they've been out of the Drift long enough to need skin on skin to maintain the same level of connection. "You awake?" Santana asks, voice rough with sleep. She tugs the waistbands of her sweatpants and her panties down, trying to keep in contact as she shimmies out of them.

"'M 'wake," Brittany mumbles, punctuating her words with a full-body stretch. She wriggles her way out of her usual sleep gear: basketball shorts and a tank top, nothing underneath. It's one of the many things Santana loves about Brittany.

"I love you," Santana declares, in case Brittany forgot between sleeping and waking. "I'm going to marry you." Brittany's answer is wordless, a wash of feeling like sunlight reflecting off tropical seas.

They settle back into each other's arms, both of them now sans clothing. Santana lays her head on Brittany's chest with a contented sigh. "Like a cat," Brittany says, stroking her hair, and Santana lets out a sleepy huff of laughter. She would purr if she could.

After Brittany combs her fingers through Santana's hair a few times, she moves on, tracing patterns on Santana's shoulderblades before running her fingers down the length of her spine. Santana shifts, pressing closer against Brittany. They always take their time waking each other up, letting Brittany's heartbeat dictate their tempo. It's been holding slow and strong this time, but it accelerates as Brittany's hands move lower still, sliding over Santana's ass. Brittany flutters her fingers in a teasing stroke where buttock meets thigh, then finally cups Santana's ass, hands tightening in a gentle squeeze.

"Mm," Santana sighs, her hips giving one long, luxurious roll. She leans up as Brittany pushes her forward, lips meeting Brittany's in a lazy kiss. She concludes the kiss with another one, this a peck to the corner of Brittany's mouth, where she gets to feel the smile that results.

_Cute,_ she can hear Brittany thinking, along with a half-realized wish for some mirrors on the ceiling.

"That might raise a few eyebrows among the senior staff," Santana says, unable to let that pass without comment. Brittany gives her ass a light smack in response. "Fine, junior staff, too. They can't all be infants with no sex lives."

Brittany bites Santana's neck just behind her jaw. Santana cries out in surprise; whatever brief pain the scrape of teeth brought is soothed by Brittany's tongue. Santana unclenches her fingers from around the bedsheets to find Brittany's pulse in her neck. It's racing, like her own.

"Dancing time," Brittany hums, using her hands to shift Santana and parting her legs. Santana settles her right leg between Brittany's; Brittany's right leg presses between her thighs. Santana braces her hands against the mattress again and Brittany sighs, her fingers digging into the sensitive skin of Santana's inner thighs..

Santana kisses Brittany again, alternating between light flicks and long sweeps of her tongue. One of Brittany's hands skims upward to find the curve of one breast, and she toys with Santana's nipple as the kiss becomes increasingly messy. The muscles in Santana's arms tremble, willing her to move, but she won't until Brittany does.

Her teeth catch Brittany's lower lip and Brittany's hips buck, rubbing herself along Santana's thigh. Santana lets out a near-sob of relief and sinks forward, grinding down on Brittany's leg. She's already wet enough to leave a slick trail as she shifts back and forth, seeking friction along the perfect muscles of Brittany's thigh. Brittany groans beneath her as she does the same, her eyes shut and her back arched. "Fuck," Santana gasps. The orgasm hits hard and unexpected, rocking her back into a kneeling position as she rides it out, Brittany's hands hot on her hips.

She moves forward to kiss Brittany, but the hands on her hips tighten in warning. _Stay put._ Santana closes her eyes and sees herself from Brittany's point of view: her body covered in a light sheen of sweat, her hair already a hopeless dark mass of tangles, her lips swollen. Santana tilts her head back, baring her throat, and Brittany thrusts faster, harder, holding Santana in place so she doesn't tumble, every muscle in her torso alight, harder now, harder, _harder_ , until her back arches one final time and Santana can feel her legs shake as she comes. The psychic echo is almost enough to set Santana off again.

"Britt," Santana mumbles, and stretches herself across Brittany one more time. Cheek pillowed on Brittany's shoulder, she runs one finger along the cotton candy soft underside of Brittany's breasts, then makes a circle around the left one, drawing in ever-smaller spirals toward her nipple. She pinches it, feels it stiffen between her fingers, and starts on the right one. This is her version of the lazy man's foreplay; she could do this all day. (One memorable day, she did.)

"No sleeping," Brittany says after a few minutes, though she's making that difficult, her hands running through Santana's hair. She untangles the worst of a snarl, divides it into three sections, and makes a tiny braid, fingers steady despite a particularly enthusiastic pinch to her nipple. "Say it again."

No need to ask what she means. "I love you," Santana says. Brittany shifts a little, knees pressing together. "Oh my God, this is a total turn-on for you," Santana realizes, delighted. "I love you, baby. We're gonna have a big white wedding."

"Yes," Brittany hisses, and hauls her up for another kiss. This one's all tongue and no art, Brittany's fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises. Santana breaks it off to tell her, "I love you," again, mouthing the words along her neck and down the outer curve of one of her breasts. Santana lets her teeth graze the skin where Brittany's chest connects to her arm just to hear her sharp intake of breath.

"I love you," Santana says again, and this time turns her attention to Brittany's breasts in earnest, squeezing one in each hand as she laps at one nipple with her tongue and then the other, tongue too slick to leave Brittany sore. She cycles through steady motions until Brittany is panting, spread wanton against the sheets.

"Santana," Brittany begs, cutting off the last syllable of her name in a choked gasp.

Santana adjusts her angle to suck at Brittany's neck. "I love you," she murmurs, low in her throat as she can and still be intelligible. Brittany shudders. Santana scrapes her nails up Brittany's inner thigh, pressing the pad of her index finger against Brittany's clit to feel the ripple through Brittany's body.

"Again," Brittany manages, her back making that beautiful arch once more. Some dance company in an alternate universe is very lucky to have Brittany as its principal dancer.

"I love you," Santana repeats, ever obedient, and holds her hand steady, letting Brittany ride it to a second orgasm. When Brittany cries out, she makes soothing noises, wiping her sticky hand on the sheets. Screw putting a ring on her finger, this is what makes them belong to each other.

After a few minutes, Brittany says, "My turn. Hold still."

Santana shudders in anticipation.

If Santana is a student in the many ways the body can respond to a variety of stimuli, Brittany is the undisputed master. Santana has memorized all of Brittany's sensitive areas; Brittany can find angles and positions Santana didn't even know she liked. For this round, Brittany doesn't spend much time playing with Santana's breasts, despite how much she likes them. She opts instead to kiss her ways down Santana's torso, running her tongue over the crease between Santana's right hip and groin. Santana moans, spreading her legs.

"I love you, too," Brittany says, breath warm against Santana's thigh. "Shh."

Despite her marching orders, the first whimper escapes Santana's lips when Brittany's tongue circles her clit, never quite touching. She's mouthy in bed, never able to keep quiet even when she was determined to keep their relationship a secret. Now the secret is as open as her legs, wider and wider to accommodate Brittany's every motion. Santana reaches back and locks her fingers around the bedposts to keep herself from pulling Brittany forward by her hair. Brittany said to be quiet. She chokes down another cry as Brittany gives a little shake of her head, burrowing deeper inside her but still too slow.

"Britt," she whines, toes curling so hard she's on the verge of a foot cramp. Impulse ripples through her, instructions. "I--ah--I love you," she gasps, and is rewarded by Brittany licking faster, her tongue keeping steady time. "We can get married next June," Santana cries out, amazed by her own coherence as her thighs twitch, precursor to orgasm. She loses the rest of her words, sends emotion along their connection instead as Brittany increases her pace. Santana's thighs squeeze Brittany closer, shameless, and then she's coming, shoulderblades sinking back into the mattress. Her legs fall to either side of Brittany's head, boneless with pleasure.

_Naptime,_ Brittany thinks, pulling up to kiss Santana. She's wet and earthy-smelling from nose to chin. _Naptime, then more._

"Good," Santana says, eyes already closing.

_And sandwiches,_ Brittany adds, because she knows her girlfriend. Fiancee.

"My favorite wife-to-be," Santana says, absurd in her happiness. She rolls onto her side, Brittany pressed close against her, and drifts off once more.

*

"We're best friends," Santana says to the cameras, and reaches her hand out to Brittany. She doesn't even have to look away to find it, tangling all of their fingers together instead of their usual pinkie lock. "That hasn't changed now that we're engaged."


End file.
